


His Orphan Queen

by VoicelessAuthor



Category: Picnic at Hanging Rock (TV), Ripper Street
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, Girl Power, mega angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:35:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25251739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoicelessAuthor/pseuds/VoicelessAuthor
Summary: Hester has a bit of an emotional evening and decides she's not keen on being a good little girl anymore.
Relationships: Arthur & Hester Appleyard
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise in advance but this is my trash ship and it's so wrong and I love it please forgive me.

Against her will she felt herself fold into him..... her frantic gasps for breath calming as she leant into his chest, his breathing like waves, steady, and powerful and intoxicating. Every fibre of her being wanted to pull away, to show him she was the one in control, not him. Despite what she knew he believed, he didn't own her. But still she felt herself, helpless, fall into his embrace. 

.   
.   
. 

She'd spent years building herself up from nothing, it had been her who, aged only 10, offered to run drinks to the patrons whilst subtly noting the conversations of the 'customers' at the poker table. Her who, at 14, had charmed the gentleman at the bar. Her who played the innocent, the flirt, and eventually the whore, who had gone to their rooms and endured the leering and heavy breath on her neck before he'd kicked in the door and 'saved' her. Most nights she'd been thrilled by the powerplay but sometimes . . . just sometimes . . . she'd had flashes of her own mortality, and along with it, the fear that maybe this time he wouldn't come. 

But he always did. And she loved him for it.   
She knew what they said, the others, their 'colleagues'. She'd been a child when he found her in the home. The nuns hadn't exactly fought for her virtue had they? He'd dressed well, true, but you barely had to scratch the surface and the truth was clear. He was as much a gentleman as she was a lady, in her rags and paupers hand-me-downs. She hadn't much cared about the sale, it was just a different kind of desperation, at least this one offered a bit of variety beyond the daily prayers and chores she'd been used to. A few less prayers perhaps, and the chores were.... different. 

To begin with he'd been decent enough, given her her instructions and, as long as she behaved, made sure she was comfortable. She had warm clothes, and a chance to show off. She liked the applause and the attention, she'd felt so anonymous at the orphanage and the recognition was a quiet thrill. He'd treated her not like a daughter (as the nuns had suggested she'd be) but more like a favoured employee. 

They passed life that way for half a decade or more, him teaching her how to please the clientele just enough to make them maleable and her learning the dance and impressing more with each encounter, hoping one day to climb the ladder from employee to business partner. To prove to him that she was capable, not just a pliable child. 

Then one day, when she was maybe 17, there'd been a shift. Subtly but definitely. She'd had a particularly difficult customer, nothing she couldn't handle but enough to have her on alert. She'd finally subdued him with a potent dose of 'perfume' that he'd licked laciviously from her neck, and she shuddered to herself and wiped hard as she lay still underneath the cot, holding tight to the man's valuables and waiting for Arthur to arrive. It seemed to take him forever tonight, but it was likely just in her mind she reasoned, he'd never failed her yet. 

She heard noises outside the door and held her breath, this part always unnerved her. The door eased open, she didn't move, she was glad he was here but her years of experience told her it wasn't safe yet. She saw boots dance across the floor and there was a creak from above, a small cry of confusion, before an arm reached under the ben and blindly reached towards her. 

Her breath caught in her throat and the world slowed down momentarily. Then everything happened at once.

The arm was wrenched out of sight, shots rang out, the naked frame of her 'client' rolled from above her and landed, sprawling and shameless, inches from her face. The sound of boots running, a door slam and then her own blood beating a deafening roar in her head. 

She lay paralysed, concentrating her entire being on not crying out, not even allowing herself to breathe until she was certain the footsteps had faded beyond hearing. Slowly she eased herself down, away from the fleshy, naked form of the man now oozing a glossy crimson. The warm sticky mess caught her cheek as she slid carefully backwards but she barely noticed it. 

She emerged from her hiding place, silently, but with little grace. Adrenaline was making her clumsy. Still holding tight to her spoils she lurched backwards, sitting heavily on her heels, and waited for her eyes, (which she'd screwed tight the moment she heard the shots) to adjust to the room. It took seconds for the blaze of the candlelight to die away and for her to find him across the room, slumped hard against the wall and holding his shoulder in shock


	2. Chapter 2

She was on her feet and across the floor in a heartbeat, coins tinkling on the ground as she dropped her haul. She tore at his shirt, ripping away the bloodsoaked linen from beneath his fingers. The wound was raw and she could see the metal of the musket ball catch in the candlelight despite the sticky seep of blood. She'd never be able to lift him and the others were gone for the night, they'd not come searching til sunrise, and by then it could be too late. He was lapsing in and out of consciousness and his breath was ragged with the pain.

She sat back and took a moment to collect herself. If she went for help their livelihood was gone, the landlords were happy to turn a blind eye for an extra penny a night and the chance to overcharge an amorous gentleman on the 'bridal suite' but the moment they smelt trouble their 'understanding' was done.

Waiting wasn't an option, he was losing blood faster than she could mop it up, he had minutes not hours.

She instinctively cased the room, as he'd always taught her to do. The 'gentleman' now lying prone on the floor, his blood seeping ever closer to her and to Arthur, had been well off; a merchant returned from a successful trip to exotic places she'd never heard of. He'd been very enthusiastic in sharing his new found wealth with the other punters and had promised her gold and silks during his drunken flirtations. His coin purse supported his claims, it held more money than she'd ever seen in one place, and she had ever so briefly considered the life his wealth could offer her be it as servant or mistress. She could run, take his money and leave Arthur to take the blame.

She breathed deeply, steadying herself for what she had to do. Reaching down she extracted the blade she always kept sewn into the hem of her skirt. She held the knife between her palms for as long as she dared, warming it as much as she could, (in hindsight it seemed a naive gesture of comfort) until she heard his breathing shallow, and then gently placed it on his shoulder near to the wound. Leaning into his neck she felt his pulse against her cheek, weak, but still steady. She breathed him in, twice, then a third time, and on the outward breath she pushed.

The knife moved smoothly, cutting easily through the ragged flesh already ravaged by the lead weight. He gasped at the sudden shock of pain and she held him tight to her, searching with the tip of the blade until she felt the sting of metal on metal. She dug deeper still and, angling the knife under the ball, pushed the handle to his collar bone until she felt the bullet release itself from it's seat and jerk free, pulling the metal from his shoulder and slicing across her own chest with the shock of the movement. He cried out in pain and then collapsed away from her grip.

She palmed the knife, sliding it absentmindedly back into it's place in her skirts. Using her whole weight she kicked the body of the merchant out of her way and took the cotton pillows that lay untouched on the bed, arranging them as best she could to support Arthur's head. It took every ounce of her strength to move his enormous frame but she managed to ease him onto his back, lifting his left arm aside and exposing the bullet hole clearly. Grabbing the bottle of East India Sherry her client had been so proud to produce for their evening she poured it over the wound causing him to cry out, and then, gently holding his head, held the bottle to his lips and encouraged him to drink deeply.

He took little encouragement to half drain the bottle before slumping heavily back to the floor his breath calming, slowly, as the liquor did its job, dulling his senses to the pain and sending him into a sleep of sorts.

As he lay there, fitful and half delirious, she dressed his wound as best she could, stripping the merchant's finery to stem the blood flow and wrap his arm tight to his chest. When she'd done all she could think to do she sat up on the bed, her knees hugged tight to her, and simply watched the steady rise and fall of his chest until the sun rose.


End file.
